


Lemon Drops

by Jaspre_Rose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus quitting cold turkey, Bottom Harry, Dumbledore always knows, Introspection, Jealous Severus Snape, M/M, Sassy Harry, blueberry pie, lemon drops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:32:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6497368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaspre_Rose/pseuds/Jaspre_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short and amusing with a sweet moment right there at the end. Severus reflects upon Albus, lemon drops, and how a certain brunette changes his life with a bag of candy and a plate of pie.</p><p>Also, only monsters steal a man's blueberry pie, quitting candy cold turkey or not. That is the important thing to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three

I cannot help but glare at the male next to me and let my mind wonder.

How had my life come to this? How had everything changed so drastically, leaving me feeling as if I’ve been suspended over a pit of deadly snakes and that my demise will come at the most unexpected moment? One wrong move or one mindlessly cruel word, no matter how insignificant it may appear at the time, could send me falling to an ugly end at the jaws of vicious fangs.

I refuse to think of my so-called emotions as anything but, for how could anything capable of causing such pain be otherwise? Emotions, a pathetic crutch for the weak of heart and mind. Assuredly I have been cursed. There is no other explanation! How had this happened? Hmm… How… oh, yes. 

The memory is clear as crystal. This was the beginning.

 

 

I have been trying to get him for years, but Albus is so unshakable. I remember first developing the urge when I was a young man fresh out of school, right after the first war had ended and I finally felt a modicum of safety. Albus had vouched for my loyalty and I was saved from imprisonment in Azkaban. It had been immense gratitude for the many things he had done for me and a growing fondness for the man himself that prompted me to accept his invitation to tea. Had I known what Albus had planned for that fateful meeting, I would have turned tail and sprinted away like the hounds of hell were nipping at my heels. At first, I suspected nothing of the man’s treachery. Albus, perhaps more so than I could ever hope to be, is a cunning old codger. 

Upon arriving to tea on that fateful day, Albus had immediately put me at ease by discussing neutral topics while we sipped at a fragrant tea gifted to him by the French Minister. It had been a pleasant experience and I’d found myself accepting another cup of the exotically spicy tea. 

That precise moment, that moment I will forever despise, was the moment Albus showed his hand.

He went on and on about the benefits of replacing Slughorn, how my brilliance and success at potions brewing would be a major credit to Hogwarts. I clearly was not interested in his offer and voiced as much multiple times. With my freedom, I wished to pursue the creation of new potions for the magical communities of the world. I wanted to be known for what I could do, not for what I had been labelled. Still, even after the tea had been finished and I could leave, Albus had popped a lemon drop into his mouth. Smacking slightly at the acidic sweet and rolling it with his aged tongue, he had continued his speech. He knew I wasn’t interested, but he kept jabbering on. 

Gods, it had been infuriating. 

There I was, trapped within the very office I had only ever been inside following brushes with Potter and his pack of animals and I could in no good conscience take my leave considering everything Albus had done for me thus far. Finally unable to control my building ire as the man listed all of the benefits a man of ‘my position’ could gain from the school’s backing, including three months every year for personal research, I did the only thing I felt safe to do. After all, he had been making rather pointed comments about my previous interactions with the Dark Lord. I cannot be blamed for it. 

I imagined the twinkly-eyed coot choking to death on his lemon drop. 

The image had been so pleasurable, nearly orgasmic, I stopped paying attention to what he was saying. All I could focus upon was the enjoyable picture forever etching itself into the very walls of my mind, his face purple with breathlessness and his hands clawing at his throat in an effort to dislodge that disgusting candy.

I realise it is a very dark thought, but do not expect me to defend it. If there is anyone who has never had to be on the receiving end of one of Albus Dumbledore’s little chats, I envy them. I quickly learned letting my guard down, even for such an enjoyable reprieve from the man’s irritating words, would never again be tolerated or endorsed. Three months after that meeting, I became “Professor Snape to you, you insolent fool, and ten points from Gryffindor.”

Yes, I have always hated Gryffindors. I cannot be blamed for that, either. As a Slytherin born and raised, an intense dislike for our rival house is simply an innate quality that cannot be quelled. Again, I cannot be blamed for that. I was predisposed for such feelings. Don’t question it. Move on. 

Over the years, I found myself again and again revisiting that same urge to see the blasted annoyance choke on his damned lemon drop. If he so much as offered me another… Gods, I’d choke him to death myself! My thoughts, I confess, are always boringly the same. ‘Perhaps with this, he’ll finally croak and leave me in peace.’ The first time I ever debased myself enough to use crass language was in an effort to win my unvoiced battle, a behaviour I previously found to be unacceptable and deplorable. It was all for naught and I could have kicked myself, because a Snape never uses foul language or behaves in an ungentlemanly manner, especially for such reasons. Yes, I am more than aware that thought would cause a round of disbelieving laughter if heard by these insipid twits I’m forced to see daily, especially that ungrateful cretin that leapt forth from Potter’s loins. Gods, I hate that little bastard… and those infuriating lemon drops, possibly as much as I hated myself in that moment. 

“Albus, I’ve found myself entertaining rather lascivious thoughts about one of my own sex. Some of the things I conjure up with my mind would make a trollop blush. It is painfully embarrassing to admit such, but he is quite a fine piece of arse and I’d hoped you could dissuade me from wanting to bury myself ball’s deep inside said arse.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Severus! I do hope you’ll introduce us someday.”

“Yes, naturally. Of course.”

That would have been all fine and dandy, except the man wasn’t real and Albus somehow knew. At the time, I still wasn’t sure which sex I even preferred or if I even had any preference so having his approval only served to irk me further.

“Oh, and Severus? Don’t worry about those thoughts. They are quite natural.” Then he had the gall to wink at me and procured a small tin. “Lemon drop?”

The sharp sting of combined embarrassment and revulsion I earned from that incident still affect me to this day. How could they not, when Albus had admitted with no specific words at all what I had always suspected? Additionally, he had confessed having such thoughts were normal, implying he often had them himself! It had been mortifying to say something like that to the old man and worse to hear the same from him. Infuriating, disgusting, and unsettling were the three emotions I would apply to the situation. In fact, I still do. 

For a week, I’d had nightmares of Albus visibly lusting after every man my mind could conjure, sometimes stroking a saggy bit of anatomy no old man should ever unveil after a certain age. The worst nightmare was the one where I had been his target. Dear Merlin help me for the wrongs I committed against that man that night. Through the long years, I had forgotten half of the curses I readily flung at him and his floppy manhood and though partially glad to have been reminded of them, I could feel no gratitude for the reminders. For the next three days, I woke up with vomit on my pillow and sweat on my brow. After that, I had gone out of my way to catch him unawares at the precise moment in an ill-conspired act of revenge. The nightmares had truly been one of the worst things I’d ever experienced and it was all his fault.

“I fear I’ve been doing something a bit unpalatable to proper society, Albus. I’ve found myself watching the young men here at the school with a new eye. My mind persists in wondering what it would be like to stretch each savoury sort over my desk and plunder their nubile bodies until their screams bring me to climax.”

Again, I hated myself for even attempting such a crude confession as it had not been exactly true. I had noticed a male here or there, yes, because I am only human. Never, though, had I ever imagined any in such a way. 

“How remarkable. I daresay your preference doesn’t run too young, since you cannot stand childlike minds and behaviours, so I’m pleased to announce such liaisons would be acceptable. You need an outlet for your constant tension and a willing lover would hit just the right spot, Severus. Rather, knowing your dominating personality so well, you would hit theirs.” He’d chuckled. Disgustingly. “Why, I well remember being a lusty young man such as yourself when I was your age. I give you my blessing and a cheerful good luck in your pursuits. Lemon drop?”

I remember leaving in a right snit, my stomach roiling in nausea. Gods! The embarrassment, once again, stung more than the man’s refusal to simply comply with my wishes! Really, Albus makes it extremely difficult to surreptitiously harm him. It was- and still is- positively outrageous. He wouldn’t even have to die to satisfy me at this point; I’d accept him turning purple and then blue before spitting up the offensive piece of pointless dental demise. I could not stand the constant failure so I did the only thing I knew would be successful. 

I flat out lied. 

“Headmaster, I would like to submit my resignation. I could not suppress my volatile urges any longer and sexually assaulted your Golden Boy during his detention last night. Though he made the prettiest little cries, I could not bring myself to cease my actions.”

“Based upon some recent and rather unsettling conversations, I feel Harry may have enjoyed, ahem, being so defiled by your person. Honestly, the boy doesn’t know when to stop talking and Ronald only exacerbates the problem by truth spells and unusual questions. I’ve had nightmares of the things that have fallen from his lips. Now, I refuse to discuss this resignation business further. Lemon drop?”

What would it take to bump off the old sod? The man was near and dear to my nearly cold heart, it is true, and I will sorely miss him when he finally chokes to death on his beloved candies. That is not to be mistaken. I would miss him. It is just an irritant that he hasn’t done it yet. Years and years I have waited and tried, all to no avail! He refused to submit to my wishes. Yet another lie was born from the increasingly tangled web I was weaving. It was my hopes that it would at the very least make him cough and splutter around that disgusting candy. 

“Albus, I need to confess something to you. Your little saviour, all of seventeen and still in school with no home or future planned ahead of him, is pregnant. The child is mine."

“Ah, I was wondering if he had told you yet. The poor boy refused to give me a name, Severus, but I already knew. Your disheartened admittance to being intimate with him ensured that. Yes, my boy, I’m overjoyed you’ll be there to help raise the small boy he will birth you in a few short months. He is already eighteen weeks and has just started to show. Odd, that. I remember his dear mother showing much sooner. My congratulations to the both of you. Lemon drop?”

I’d left in a daze. It was one thing to lie about Potter being pregnant when it hadn’t been real in my mind. Confronted with the situation in real life, I realised it was something I couldn’t in all conscience continue to lie about. As much as it disgusted me, I couldn’t sully the future of that boy’s child by claiming, even if only to Albus, that I was its paternal father. Within a week, I had confessed lying about raping the boy and claimed I’d done it out of boredom, which was naturally a lie to cover the truth. Albus's blasted blue eyes had twinkled – bloody twinkled! – at me and he said he knew and Potter wasn’t pregnant; they were… ah… bored, as well. 

 

 

I again look down at the male beside me and scowl a little. Sodding thorn in my side.

No, I don’t want the arse to choke. Well, that was a bald-faced lie. When the time finally came, I would carry to the grave the precious memory of Albus finally choking on his godforsaken lemon drops, willingly smiling every time it crossed my mind (which would be quite frequent enough to make all question the sanity of the suddenly-smiling Head of Slytherin). 

Still, I do not think I wish for him to choke on them quite as much as I used to. I just do not wish to deal with the ramifications of such an occurrence afterwards. Such as the time… 

 

 

“Is there any particular reason you’re eating everything in sight?”

“I choked on a lemon drop and decided my days are safer without them. Without them, though, I find myself constantly hungry. Are you going to finish your blueberry pie?”

I love blueberry pie. I have always loved blueberry pie and I will always love blueberry pie, my love bordering on obsessive desperation to eat as much of it as possible when it’s presented to me. I still loved blueberry pie with a passion when the last vestiges of my dessert were disappearing into the yawning maw belonging to that bastard, the small plate upon which my slice of pie stood having been forcibly pried from my white-knuckled grip moments before. Whatever vague sense of elation I felt from Albus finally getting what he deserved concerning those damned candies and also the irritation from having missed such a blessed occurrence immediately disappeared into a cloud of smoke. 

He’d taken my blueberry pie.

Never before had I wanted to shove my boot so far up someone’s arse as I had so dearly desired in that very moment. How dare he take my pie? I could have killed him. In fact, I would have if Potter had not come out of thin air and saved Albus’s life, temporarily distracting me from my black mood with a vague comment about not giving up on the thing someone most desires. He’d shoved a bag of lemon drops into Albus’s hand, handed me his own plate of pie, and climbed back down from the staff table so he could return to the Gryffindor table.

I could have kissed Potter in that moment. He had truly changed my life in an unexpected, yet nonetheless wonderful, way. He deserved the gratitude and pleasure a kiss from me would give him. Assuredly, it would have been the best thing he’d ever received. There was no doubt. Potter had brightened the day considerably. 

I had some more blueberry pie!

However, since it wasn’t my own slice of pie, I was still in a foul mood and probably would have bit the boy, instead of kissed him, just to get back at Albus’s appalling cruelty. Seriously, who steals pie from someone else’s hands?! Watching Potter walk away and feeling the plate in my hand, a sudden thought took root in my mind and became a truth I couldn’t shake. 

I realised I loved lemon drops. 

No, they’re still as wretched as Weasley’s Quidditch socks (the smell has permeated the entire castle and will doubtless never fade) and I would rather eat my own vomit than have a lemon drop in my mouth. I loved them only because they ensured Albus would never again steal my pie. 

Damn that man. 

 

 

I interrupt my own thoughts when, for the third time, the male next to me catches my attention. I feel my lips press into a thin line as I reach out my hand and smack him on the back of the head. 

“I do not recall petitioning you at any point to salivate on my pillow, Potter.”

The boy runs a hand over his mouth, rolls over, and hisses at the obvious ache in his backside. Was I too rough with him last night? He seemed to enjoy it and hadn’t once told me to stop…

“Did I fall asleep?”

“I would say the answer to that should be obvious even to you. I swear, you and Albus are both worthless sometimes. All you do is jabber-”

“You’re still angry with him?”

“He connived against me, ruined yet another of my evenings without even being present, and lied about your pregnancy. Also, he stole my blueberry pie.”

“Shagging ruins your evening?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter. I can appreciate an evening of pleasure, even with one such as yourself, since I am skilled enough to compensate for even an untalented sod like Longbottom. I was referring to my present company.”

“You didn’t seem to mind my company a while ago.”

“That is because I wasn’t thinking straight. I was merely focused on reaching climax and you just happened to be the nearest willing body.”

“Huh. Well, as long as you’re not thinking straight, mind another round? I don’t think you quite managed to make sure I couldn’t sit for a week.”

Despite the very slight pang of concern that statement caused, I shake my head in exasperation and sigh. The dimwit is smiling! How dare he?

“Roll over, boy, and shut up. I also insist you stop smiling if you wish for me to leave your arse somewhat intact.”

“Three years with the man and he still treats me like a little brat,” I hear him muffle into the pillow, his legs kicking open. 

“You are a little brat.”

“Yours, though?”

“I’ve yet to decide.”

I pity the man who tries to steal him away before I’ve decided if I wish to keep him or not. He is mine and only mine until I choose. Any man who touches him before then will not survive the encounter. As I’ve mentioned, my so-called emotions are treacherous things. Jealousy, of all things, is shameful. 

“You’ve been saying the same thing for three, long years.”

“What did I just tell you?”

Indeed. Three years isn’t nearly long enough to make a decision of such magnitude. I may need another twenty, thirty, maybe even seventy years to make an informed decision. I am nothing if not thorough. Until then, I plan to do as much experimentation and research with him that I can. The more information I have on him, the more certain I will be of my decision. 

“Severus. Hey!” The brat’s wiggling his arse at me! The absolute nerve of that boy. “Forget I was down here?”

“I do believe your impertinence deserves some punishment, Potter. I would brace myself if I were you.”

“Make sure I learn my lesson, sir. You know how thick-skulled I can be sometimes.”

“For once, I think I agree with you.”

“Also, when we’re finished in here and if I can walk, I feel like making some pie. Blueberry sound good with you? I may need your help standing, but I’ll manage.”

I may need longer than seventy years to decide. I am, as I said, a very thorough man.


	2. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemon Drops was originally supposed to be a one-chapter fic, but an idea took hold in my head one day when I was going through some old documents. You know how it goes. Hope you enjoy!

I never thought Potter could surprise me in any way. He was truly such a predictable little thing. I always had some idea of what would be coming next and could appropriately anticipate each new dilemma. This, however, was an extraordinary circumstance. The boy had one hand gripping the opposite side of the counter while he attempted to make a pie one-handed. 

“Potter, what on earth are you doing?”

“I’m trying to make a pie for dinner. Can you help?”

No shit, you little brat. 

“I can clearly see you’re trying to make a pie. You’re failing horribly. What I’m asking of, though, is why you are doing that.”

“I’m a little sore.”

Had I hurt him? Honestly, the boy had no sense. If he gets hurt, he needs to tell me so I can at least mock him. It’s my god given right. Perhaps I shouldn’t play so rough when I’m doing my research… Then again, he never tells me to stop. He merely encourages me to go harder, faster, rougher.

“And that requires bending over like that?”

Honestly, he’s the one begging for the violence.

“I can’t stand up straight without leaning back against something. No one else is here so I’m doing this.”

No one else? Is that insatiable sod entertaining others while I’m gone? That will simply not be tolerated. I have warned him that seeking others out before I’ve decided if I want him or not will result in some horrifying things that I refuse to be held accountable for. 

“May I ask whom you were expecting to be here?”

“Uh, you. Possibly my friends if they could manage to pull their heads out of each other’s arses. Bloody unlikely since ‘Mione just gave birth.”

“I see.”

Hmm. Well, he’s safe for now. I’m keeping my eyes on him, though. I never could trust the brat. Six years and I still believe that to be irrevocably true. 

“If I bribe you with your favorite, can you help me? My arm’s getting tired.”

“When have I ever been known to help you?”

“You do it all the time. I’m just nice enough not to point it out.”

Smart boy I’ve got here. 

“If my actions bring about the creation of blueberry pie, I suppose I can sacrifice myself for a time. What exactly is your need?”

“Can you stand behind me so I can lean back? I’ll need both hands soon…”

“As long as you vow you won’t pass on whatever diseases your mangy body might be carrying.”

Whatever that dark laugh had been about, I will find out the cause before the night’s over. I swear, if he’s given me something, I will kill him and the man responsible. He is mine until I decide not to keep him, dammit!

“I promise. Please?”

I stand behind him with a small huff and pull his body back, his back and arse touching my chest and groin. In that precarious position, he works, humming softly to himself all the while. I hold his hips tightly, refusing to let him fall. If he did so, he might ruin my favorite pie and that is another thing I will absolutely not allow. He doesn’t say anything when a few of my silent spells heal up the bruises on his hips and the soreness he’d been feeling and I don’t care to, either. It is my job to ensure he stays in one piece until I’ve made my decision. If he’s mine, he won’t be broken. If he’s not mine, I couldn’t care less. Until then, though…

Still holding him against me, I look over his shoulder curiously. I’ll let go of him in a moment. I wouldn’t want to give him the idea I like being around him or anything. I just want to see what he’s doing. It is easy to do, since he is a short and wimpy boy. Man. Man-child. I cannot look away from his hands, though that fact is supremely annoying. 

I’ll blame it on the pie. 

“I do not recall ever watching you make pie.”

“You haven’t.”

“I’m not surprised. I suffer your presence enough as it is.”

In six interminably long years suffering this brat’s presence, I’ve never watched this? I have never asked nor have I ever discovered how, but his pies always tasted better than that run of the mill pie served by the school elves. Perhaps now I shall discover his secrets. I will simply have to forget my dire wish to get away from him lest he get the wrong ideas about me. He better not be slipping potions into it or I’ll throttle him. 

Oh. There we go. Well, now I have no choice but to continue standing behind him. I need to know how he does it and if he’s being careless by mixing potions. That was a legitimate reason. 

I’ll suffer through it. It’s for the sake of the pie, honestly. I carefully watch him sort out all of the blueberries, placing seemingly random amounts into two different containers. What is his criteria for that chore? Does he see or feel something that I can’t? Without pausing to think about how ridiculous it is, when he lifts a hand up to the general area of my mouth with a fresh, juicy blueberry between his fingers, I automatically suck the fruit off. 

I do so love blueberries. 

Mercifully, he doesn’t say anything. The little brat knows my weakness, it would seem. Then again, I’ve never made a secret of my love for them. I almost don’t accept his next offering, but I can’t resist the call of the succulent fruit. Gripping his hips tighter and leaning down a bit, I again suck the fruit from his fingers. Gods, it is delicious. Perhaps I could eat a few more if he continues keeping his comments to himself. I could suffer even the boy’s filthy fingers being in my mouth, just as long as they’re clutching a blueberry or two. 

“Hey, you want to grab that bowl behind you so I can start mixing the filling?”

I consider grunting at him and not moving, but it’s close enough I may as well grab it. It will ensure the pie is done quicker if I don’t have to hear him sniveling about me being unhelpful before grabbing it himself. I’m saving myself the effort by grabbing it and handing it off. That’s all.

Once again, he settles against my chest and removes the heated blueberries from my favorite cauldron. I’m too interested in his work to comment about him no longer needing my services or about using my best cauldron for cooking. 

It’s for my pie.

Besides, if I did that, I’d have to leave and I still want to see how he does this. No, I’ll just stand as close as possible behind him and watch over his shoulder. Easier that way. 

“Why are you putting cornflour in blueberry pie? Surely it doesn’t need any.”

“Chef’s secret.”

I make a mental note to berate him for his disrespect later. I’m busy at the moment. 

“Why are you putting a cooling charm on the dough?”

“Chef’s secret.”

Again, I make a mental note to berate him for the same disrespect later. I’m busy at the moment. What is he doing now?

“Severus, do you want me to make this pie or spend my time answering your questions?”

Had I asked that out loud? I bite my tongue so I won’t answer, hurrying him along his task. I want that damned pie. When he starts rolling out the pastry, I let my fingers relax enough so he can move but don’t step back. He doesn’t seem to mind. Again, he cools the pastry and I almost ask why, but that would just delay his progress further so I keep silent. However, I can’t keep quiet when he starts brushing eggs or something over it. 

“You’re surely ruining it by adding egg, Potter.”

He sighs but doesn’t say anything. I find myself almost smiling at the exasperated sound. I truly do enjoy irritating him.

Though I am the only one allowed to do so. I will not allow others to bother him. Why would I? It’s my job. He is mine in all ways… until I’ve finished my research. I’ve hexed at least four of the Weasleys in the past year for irritating him.

Yes, I was offended! The sodding brats were angering him and that is my bloody job. Each time, I saw red and reacted without thought. Imbeciles. 

“Hey, can you let me go? I need to put these in the oven.”

“I have an oven?”

I ignore his scowl and step back so he can do his job. Really, it’s the only thing he’s good at. Well, besides the other little things he does around here. Only a week into the summer holiday, he’s managed to clean the entirety of my house, cook three meals a day, prepare me drinks or small munchies, clean our laundry on a daily basis, do our weekly shopping, collect our mail in the morning, tend the garden, and submit to my daily experimentations and research. 

The research, actually, is coming along quite nicely. I’ve learned quite a lot of his likes and dislikes. For example, he loves it when he’s riding me slowly or I’m on top and thrusting into him ruthlessly. He loves feeling like he has no control, like I’m taking it away from him. Naturally I am, but he doesn’t need to know that. Also, he hates being on his hands and knees. He’s never said why, but I believe it’s so he can call out my name when he comes. He does watch me closely right as he’s coming and he’s yet to call another name out. I believe my theory about that is correct. The evidence is overwhelming. After all, I’m well aware of what I look like. I wouldn’t even want to look at me in the throes of passion. 

Amongst everything else I’ve learned, I know he loves to read, exercise, and cuddle. Merlin knows, though, that he only indulges himself in that last particular endeavor when I’m deeply asleep. I would not accept less. He hates being inactive, being alone, and not hearing from his friends for longer than three days at a time. I would have to check the notes I’ve made on my research to be sure, but I believe I’ve discovered approximately 613 things worth noting about him. The notes are all memories, of course, because I’m not going to leave notes of that sort of thing laying around for other men to find and use for their own pleasure. I’ll be damned if I help another man take pleasure from what is mine. For now. Possibly. 

“Is there a reason you’re glaring at me like that? I don’t remember doing anything to irritate you.”

I finally focus on him and realize he’s wiping his hands on a towel, his brows furrowed in that way he does when he’s trying to figure something out. I feel my glare darken and he abruptly looks taken aback. 

“If I ever discover you’ve slept around before I’ve decided if you’re mine or not, I will maim you terribly, Potter. I will also kill the man- or men- you’ve given yourself to.”

Damn him. Why does he always smile like that when I say that? It’s annoying. The damned brat isn’t worth the trouble sometimes.

“The only man I’m sleeping with is right in front of me.”

I can’t help myself. I have to look around to make sure I’m the only other man in the room. Again, the brat smiles, this time accompanied by a laugh. It infuriates me enough to want to walk away, but he’s in front of me in an instant. 

“I’m serious, boy. No one else touches you. Until I’ve made my decision, you’re mine.”

That smile’s back. Disregarding my obvious irritation, he starts unbuttoning the shirt I stick to during the summer: a long-sleeved black button-up. He claims it’s less severe than my usual jacket and I grudgingly admit it is cooler. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Severus. So…” He drags a single finger down my chest and ridiculously bats his eyelashes at me. “Do you maybe want to go upstairs while that cooks?”

I glance between his eyes, the stairs, the living room, the backdoor, and the table before focusing on him again. 

“No, I have no wish to go upstairs.” 

“Oh.”

He looks almost downcast and I feel myself smirk triumphantly. 

“I wish to stay right here,” I say and then command in my silkiest voice, “Strip.”

“Oh…”

This came out breathier than the last. I’ve noticed he particularly enjoys my voice like this, though I’ve no idea why. I don’t bother to question it anymore. He’s just a weird kid. He annoys me most of the time and I often wonder what it would be like to strangle him when his mouth gets the better of him, but I still always enjoy watching him strip… or cook. Cleaning, too, is a sight to see. He just has this way of doing things. Maybe it’s his clumsiness I enjoy watching. Speaking of, he’s again attempting to seduce me with a striptease that isn’t quite making it. My cock’s already hard from him rubbing up against me the entire time he was working on the pie so I know the dance isn’t working. 

His teases aren’t seductive at all. 

“Stop dancing, Potter.”

He’s smiling at me again as he pushes me down to the floor, setting a cushioning charm underneath my person. He has his odd moments of thoughtfulness, I’ll give him that. Somehow, and I literally have no recollection of how it happened, I ended up as starkers as him within seconds. Merlin, I knew I shouldn’t have skipped this morning’s research. I feel like I could hammer nails through metal right now. Have for the last thirty minutes if I’m being honest. 

Climbing back on top, the brat kisses me while I prepare him. I can tell he’s enjoying it, too. The greedy little beast truly is insatiable. Lazy, to boot. He could prepare himself every once in a while. He smacks my hand away after only having two fingers and I swat his arse in warning. He knows better than to hit me, because I hit back. Before I could stop him, he’s impaling himself and hissing in pain. 

I hold absolutely still, looking at him like he’s insane. 

“Couldn’t wait. Pain is fine.”

“Ridiculous.”

Like any other time he’s on top, he’s moving as slowly as possible. I often find myself wondering why this is. As a master of detecting emotions in others, I easily pick out a myriad of emotions on his face. Most are easy to decipher: the pain of initial penetration, lust, pleasure, and sadness. I’ve asked many times why he always looks upset when he does this if he loves it as much as he claims, but he never answers me. 

It’s vexing, to say the least. 

The other emotions I have difficulty understanding. I cannot even name them, let alone determine their cause or their meaning. There’s even one emotion there that hadn’t been there until the start of our second year together and it, more than the others, drives me insane. I can’t figure out what it means, but it seems like I should know. He never explains them. 

“Can we move, but keep the same pace?”

“Where do you want to move?”

“Nowhere. I want on my back.”

I cannot help it. My brow arched in curiosity. In our six years of doing this, he’s never asked this before. I had fearfully suggested it once (the position and pace seemed too intimate for my research), but he’d rejected the idea. Instead, he’d begged me to play rough. I’d gladly obliged and never brought it up again. Now, though, I’m curious despite my obvious feelings on the subject. 

“Are you quite sure?”

He nods and I easily roll his too thin body over. He has yet to put on sufficient weight, despite Molly Weasley’s nagging. Those bones of his like to stab me in the middle of the night, usually right as I’ve fallen into a deep sleep. Regardless of that, I recast the cushioning charm on this new patch of floor, summon a pillow from the drawing room, and tuck it under his hips. I resume the annoyingly slow pace with a sigh, ignoring his sharp hip bones grinding into me. 

Looking down, the emotions I see on his ever-expressive face are altered somewhat. There’s still lust and pleasure, though they appear intensified. He loves being on his back so I’m not surprised. I had expected those, but now there’s also rapture and the same foreign emotion he’s been exhibiting for five years. He’s been watching me since I’ve been watching him, which has been from the moment he started rocking atop of me. I want to speed up the pace a bit, but he gives me a pathetic frown and tightens his arms around my shoulder before I even have a chance to do it. 

“Please don’t yet, Severus.”

Odd that he can read me so well. 

“Do you actually wish to come sometime tonight, brat?”

“Yeah, just not yet. Not now. Just keep going.”

I carry on. Whatever he’s wanting, I must be giving it to him. I wish I bloody well knew what it was, but he probably won’t tell me even if I deign to ask. Which I won’t. I don’t feel like waging a battle right now. Even though my body is yelling at me to speed up and find the release it dearly craves, I decide this slow pace isn’t quite as bad as I thought it would be. It isn’t as tiring and it’s allowing me to see some things on the brat’s face that I normally wouldn’t. Without breaking pace, I prop myself on my forearms and stare down at him. Our bodies are close enough, our faces more than close enough, that I can see I wasn’t mistaken. 

“Are you crying?”

He shakes his head silently and I now know without a doubt he’s crying. Have I hurt him somehow? No, he would have said something. Wouldn’t he have? Yes, most assuredly he would have. Besides, I would have sensed it when it happened. This wasn’t our usual type of coupling so any injury would immediately be noticeable. When I feel his legs wrap around my waist, I open my eyes again. When had I closed them?

“You can speed up now if you want.”

I don’t. I have no idea why I don’t, because it’s what my body wants. I decide to ignore my body for a while. Loathe as I am to admit it, this isn’t as horrible as I thought. I’m actually appreciating it quite a bit. I don’t have to worry about overexerting myself too quickly and I can still watch him. I’m curious… another question to add to my notes. 

“What is going on in your mind right this moment, boy?”

“You’re asking me what I’m thinking?”

“Did I not just ask that?”

Dear Merlin, did I just ask that? How sickening. Merlin knows he’ll misinterpret the reason I ask, the ever-hopeful twit. 

“Erm, nothing. Are you going to speed up?”

I don’t answer him. For a while longer, I keep up the same pace. He seems to enjoy it immensely, even if he had been the one asking me to speed up. The boy is just confusing. He wants one thing and asks for another, but he only does it on rare occasions so I never know what he really wants me to do! 

Not that I care what he wants. 

I eventually listen to my body, my strokes becoming deeper and a bit faster. He sighs quietly and it takes me a minute to realise he looks happy. Just confusing. I’d tap into his mind and see what’s going on in there (yes, I am aware he never answered my question), but a year into this strange thing going on between us, he perfected his Occlumency skills enough to keep me out most of the time. He occasionally had his moments of surprising intelligence, enough so to surprise me. 

I realise as I’m quickening my strokes, incidentally stimulating his prostate as much as possible, that I have lost track of all time. I have no idea how long we’ve been down here. One moment, it feels like mere minutes. The next moment, it feels like hours. Does he keep asking me to speed up because his back’s getting sore? How long have we been down here for? I know the pie has a set time to cook. He was mumbling something about it when setting the oven to the right temperature. Working backwards, I could easily work out the length of time we have been going… 

“Potter, how much longer until the pie’s done?”

His eyes dim and I wonder what it’s about. I very nearly ask, but he speaks before I can. 

“Less than ten minutes. Finish this if you want.”

My eyes narrow suspiciously. He sounds angry or upset. I can never tell with that overly-emotional whelp. It irritates me either way and I almost decide to finish this with as much pain as I can inflict. Something in his eyes flicker, though, catching my attention. He’s hiding something from me? I stop altogether and study him for a few long moments. When he becomes uncomfortable, I resume a faster, more shallow pace than before. This won’t be rough, no. I want to know what he was looking for from this. I also want to know what that hint of guilt was about. Best not think about it, though, or I’ll imagine all sorts of horrible things. 

I pull up enough so I can insinuate a hand between us. I am nothing if not a conscientious lover. He seems to approve, as I knew he would. Greedy little beast. Always has been, always will be. I manage to bring him to completion right as the timer for the pie goes off. He desperately clings to me while I thrust deeply six or seven more times, thrusting in as deep as I could at the end and spilling my release with a growl of satisfaction. I drop back onto my forearms and kiss him deeply, for once doing what my mind tells me instead of doing as the boy requested. 

It’s the first kiss I’ve ever initiated with him, I’m sure. 

He refuses to let me go, even after the intense and drawn out kiss we shared. I’ve never noticed, but his mouth tastes like butterscotch. Has it always? When I push up on my hands and he doesn’t let go, I begin to wonder if he really is sore and simply unable to do so. 

“Brat, are you okay?”

“Yeah. You’re just warm.”

“Your pie is going to burn if we ignore that alarm much longer.”

“Can you please ignore the damned pie for a minute and suffer through me holding onto you?”

“What the devil has gotten into you?”

“You,” he replies dryly. 

I honestly don’t know how to take that. Is he attempting to be funny or is he being a brat? Deciding I would get to the bottom of it sooner or later, I wave a hand at the oven to turn it off and keep the pie from further cooking and then conjure a blanket. It’s oddly chilly in here and this is the first time I’m noticing. Strange, but understandable. I stretch out on my back and rest my head on my hands. I should not be surprised when the boy crawls on top and tucks his head into my neck, but I am. He knows the rules, after all. No cuddling. In fact, I’m sure it was our first rule. I can’t help the sigh that escapes me. 

“What are you doing?”

It didn’t sound as irritable and demanding as I thought it would. To my horror, it sounded almost resigned. 

“Stealing your body warmth like a ruthless heat-sucking monster. It’s not cuddling, I promise.”

Surprising even myself, I find that so amusing, I can’t find the will to push him away. I decide he can steal my body heat for a little bit, because it’s not cuddling. Eventually, though, I’ll want to push him off and go eat that pie. It’s just torture knowing it’s in the room and I’m not able to touch it yet. 

It needles in the most irritating of ways that the brat has a similar effect on me. Like last Christmas in this very house... Gods, I’ve never been happier to literally throw people out of my house and ravage that damned boy on the hearth. We learned that night that both of us quite like coupling in front of the fire. At nearly the same time, I remember with chagrin, we’d asked why we hadn’t done it before and the brat had started laughing. Clearly, he had imbibed too much eggnog. 

When the cushioning charm starts to wear off, I push my thoughts into the back of my mind, banish the blanket, and try to move. I’m not necessarily pinned to the floor, but he is laying on me and he might find a way to hurt himself if I force him off of me like I dearly want to. 

“Potter, move. I want that pie. It’s literally calling to me now and you’ve sucked up enough body heat to last through to winter.”

I receive no response and I realise he’s asleep. Of course he is. It is after shoving him a bit that I feel the drool pooling on my chest. Disgusted, I shove him hard enough to jolt him awake but not to knock him off. I would hate to damage something that I may decide in the far future is mine. 

“What!?” the brat screeches right in my ear. 

Rubbing the sensitive orifice gently, I glare at him. He blushes and rolls off, looking around the kitchen, seemingly unsure how he’d gotten there. I wait for him to remember and then fix a disdainful look on my face. 

“You fell asleep.”

“I always do. You shouldn’t be surprised. Oh, no, the pie!” 

He’s up in a flash, his bare arse shining in the fading sunlight, and he streaks across the kitchen. I smirk amusedly when I realise he has my dried seed on his thigh and silently clean the spot with a Scourgify so he doesn’t have to deal with it until he takes a shower. It wasn’t for his comfort. It was for mine. I am a selfish creature, after all. Had I left it there, he would have forgotten about it and been complaining about it.

“The pie is fine. I turned it off when you started leeching away my body heat.”

“I can tell. Man, it smells amazing. Want some?”

I feel my brow raise. “Of course I do. Have you lost your mind?”

“I’ve lost something,” he mutters. 

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve got something.”

Simply changing a word and saying it louder doesn’t fool me. I heard him the first time. I will figure it out, if it is the last thing I do. He hides enough from me as it is. He isn’t helping my research efforts at all when he hides shit from me. I’ve only about sixty-four years left to study him and decide! I can’t help the glare I shoot him as I stand. The infuriating little twit. 

“What is it you’ve got?”

“I’m making lasagne for dinner.”

“Oh, really?”

I’ll wait for that interrogation. I’ve dinner preparations to oversee and a cheeky brat to keep in line. When said brat ‘accidentally’ drops his apron, still completely starkers, and gives me a lovely view of his arse when he bends to pick it up… 

No one can blame me for dinner being an hour late.


End file.
